


For What It's Worth

by The Lucky Bard (renieflorian)



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Amaranthine (Dragon Age), Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Multi, The Gallows (Dragon Age), University of Orlais
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:54:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27089716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renieflorian/pseuds/The%20Lucky%20Bard
Summary: Renée (formerly "Evune") is an elf raised in the city of Amaranthine who lost her family during the 5th Blight. A young mage who, probably by chance, managed to hide her gift for many years and keep out of the eyes of the Templars and a life enclosured in a Circle of Magi.Orphaned, she was taken to Val Royeaux to serve a family of the Orlesian nobility, the house of the Baron de Tourtellotte. With a new name, and a new life, Renée joined as a student at the University of Orlais, developing research in the field of Geosciences.Years later, she decided to withdraw unexpectedly from university to enlist as an agent for the newly reformed inquisition. However, her hasty egress would not happen without a heavy price to be paid.Meeting new (and old) allies, while confronting pieces of her past, she joins forces with the inquisitor to restore peace in Thedas.--Twitter:the_luckybardInstagram:renatacunhartTumblr:theluckybard
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This series was named after Buffalo Springfield's song [For What It's Worth](https://youtu.be/80_39eAx3z8)  
> \--  
> This story takes place during the events of "Dragon Age: Inquisition", but might jump to some events related to Dragon Age: Origins (mostly Awakening) and Dragon Age 2.
> 
> Just want to let you know, I am not a native English speaker, and I don't have any revisors helping me, so you may find a lot of language mistakes all around. I am truly open to criticism and I really want to learn if you have something nice to say!
> 
> That being said, I hope you enjoy this adventure through Thedas!

_Kirkwall, 9:37 Dragon_

“You can't ask me to leave like this!”

The clinic in Darktown was operating at its peak capacity for the past few days. The request made by Anders at an opportune moment to avoid any kind of argument pierced Agnes's chest like a cold arrow.

The situation in Kirkwall was bordering on chaos. The tension between the Templar Order and the Circle of the Magi, in addition to the complete apathy of the Chantry towards the abuses of its military arm, had obscured Anders's heart. The apostate healer used to talk for hours on this subject with Agnes, both of whom immersed in endless reflections on the possibility of making the mages' lives less martyred, a worthwhile fight. Her visions commonly filled with exaggerated optimism often led him to a state of mind that he had long imagined he had left behind. However, the voice of Justice often forced him to return to reality, reminding him of his dark goals. So, for the past few months, Anders had been cloistering himself in a bitter prison, ending the subject entirely or evading every question that was directed at him.

He walked from side to side, attending to the sick and wounded at random, avoiding at all costs facing Agnes and her painful expression in supplication.

“ _Don't say anything. Send her away. Now._ ”

The spirit, or whatever another macabre thing the healer was hosting, had been plaguing him most insistently in the past few days. And as much as Anders struggled to silence any evil glimpses against his friend and, Maker, how painful it was to face all that about her, his attempts always ended in the same way. Justice was definitely in charge.

But the apostate still sought to deal with her gently, although the spirit demanded the opposite.

“Darling,” he said in a sweet tone, turning to face her after a deep sigh, but still averting her gaze, “I promise you one day you’ll understand--”

“Understand _what_ , Anders?” His evasions finally killed the last spark of patience on her, so she interrupted him roughly, holding the mage's chin firmly and forced him to look into her eyes. Both stared at each other for painful seconds, which seemed more like an eternity. “Please, talk to me. Whatever is going on, _talk to me._ ”

However, all the healer was able to share at that moment was a silent attempt of denial. His gaze said it all as if something was threatening him if he opened his mouth. _“I can not.”_

And something was.

As if waking up from a trance, back to a cruel reality, she finally came to an atrocious realization. “You don't trust me anymore.”

The expression of indignation on her face became more evident, her eyes wide and filling with tears little by little. She then dropped his face in the air as if leaving something that caused disgust. Anders stared at her listlessly, in silence, recognizing that it would do no good to react to the situation he had created himself. Maybe it was for the best.

Being close to the apostate during the last few years and, witnessing the increasing frequency with which Justice manifested himself, especially amid conversations about the abuses suffered by the mages, made Agnes uncomfortable. But little by little she ended up tolerating the presence of the entity. Not willingly, but still. What she wanted the most was for that _thing_ to go away. Forever. She was aware that the solutions she knew that could make mage and spirit dissociate from each other were completely out of the question, however, she still spent sleepless nights obstinately studying some other alternative in her dusty books. With no results. Obviously, she avoided discussing the topic openly with Anders, after all, she didn’t know what Justice's reaction would be when heard that he was not welcome there. But he knew. Justice knew that this woman despised his presence and that she would be a major obstacle to his plans.

And she, quite clearly, acknowledged that the trigger for that recent attitude from Anders could be related to something about that spirit. Or demon. Her heart plummeted toward her stomach when she finally realized. Anders had ended up surrendering to that creature's ideas, and now, he was trying to drift them both apart at all costs.

She shook her head in denial, those ideas were feeling too painful to bear. Slowly, she began to distance herself from the apostate. Staring at him still outraged, she couldn't help a warm, dense tear from rolling down her cheek and her throat tightening as if something invisible was strangling her hard. One of the nurses who helped Anders at the clinic ended up bumping into her on the way, apologizing, but she was too intoxicated in her sordid thoughts to react.

After one last glance, in an attempt to memorize the face of the one she had placed all her trust over all those years, she sped through the clinic door without trying to look back again. Something in her heart said that this would be the last time they would be together. At least, not in the same way.

The weight of the world fell over Anders's shoulders. And he saw his last spark of hope for a lighter life fade with the departure of his friend. Now, he should embrace his destiny. Or nothing.

With a last breath before returning to his service, he whispered to himself.

“You’ll understand.”

***

“You can’t be serious!” The mage was holding the dwarf's shoulders amicably with an expression of astonishment on his face.

“Yes, I am. Kinda for the first time, I’m telling the truth.” Varric poured a generous amount of wine into a large glass that rested over a barrel. The wind was blowing softly over Skyhold's battlements, and a satisfied smile appeared on the artifice's lips as soon as he noticed the happy surprise of the Champion of Kirkwall at hearing the good news.

“I thought she…”

“Dead during the rebellion? No. Apparently, blondie had a moment of common sense amid so much shit.” The dwarf took a long sip of the drink. “He sent her away from Kirkwall before the whole shit went off.”

Hawke exhaled all the air from his lungs in a relieved laugh. “Damn bastard. At least one thing right before… ending up impaled.” His gaze roamed the fortress courtyard, trying to locate that figure he now longed to find. “Is she here?”

The dwarf nodded, grunting with a mouthful of wine. “I asked an officer to bring her here,” he said, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic. “It wouldn't be cool to have you strolling around openly.”

The mage smiled wistfully when an affectionate memory came to play in his thoughts. “Mom would be--”

Varric interrupted the mage's brief elaboration by placing a gentle hand on his back. Through the upper battlements, Agnes was approaching accompanied by one of the inquisition officers but froze halfway when she noticed him in the distance. Her wide stare was difficult to interpret, so Hawke sent her a shy smile in an attempt to encourage her to come closer.

She then sprinted up the stairs leading to the lower floor and Hawke's lips widened in an open, awkward smile. Varric took a discreet step back.

“Amell--”

A quick, well-aimed hand hit Hawke in the face, immediately preventing him from continuing his sentence. The sound of the slap echoed loudly through the corridors of buildings in the fortress, scaring some crows that were perched on the upper tower to fly in fright. The silence that followed was breathtaking, but it was soon broken by a sound sip that Varric took in his wine. Thrilled, he had abandoned the idea of the glass and was now drinking straight from the bottle.

“Only you didn't see it coming, Hawke,” said the dwarf with a pained expression on his face.

The mage rubbed slowly his cheek as he stared at Agnes in dismay.

“I missed you too, cousin--”

“Asshole. What did you expect?!” she interrupted him, approaching him threateningly again. Hawke took a step back, placing his hands in front of them in a clearly futile attempt to serve as a shield. “You deserved so much more!”

The woman's uneasy walk from side to side huffing with sheer hatred left Hawke hesitant. She didn't have to open her mouth to let him know why she had acted that way. But he tried to explain himself anyway, without being asked.

“I…” he sighed, “I did what was right--”

“Supporting the Templars? You can't be serious...” she interrupted him again with an exaggerated laugher that made even Varric worried.

“Will you, please, let me speak?”

“I don't want to hear your explanations! I _know_ why you did that.”

“Oh really? Oh really?” Hawke now put his hands on his hips, staring at her in exasperation in an instant of silence leaving his mouth open, trying out some soundless words. Perhaps some great sentence could leave his lips at that moment. “So... tell me _you_!”

Obviously, that was barely expected. Her reaction had made him lose track of his thoughts, so all that sweet memory that had come up a few minutes ago disappeared in the blink of an eye. Or in an instant of a slap. Varric chuckled against the mouth of the bottle, shaking his head. Agnes bit her lip.

“You... you’re pathetic, Garrett.”

Whatever the Champion said, nothing would seem to convince Agnes that the decisions he had made during the resolution of the Kirkwall rebellion would have been the best, or the most correct. An apostate who had turned his back on other mages, allowing hundreds of innocent souls to end up dead during that bloody battle, was not worthy to even be heard. Hawke should feel for himself what life was like in a Circle, Agnes thought, especially in a Circle as oppressive as Kirkwall's, and among all the stupid decisions her cousin had made so far, this one seemed to bother her the most.

“Look, Amell…” Her surname was used on very few occasions. Usually when the situation demanded a little more delicacy or respect. “I know I did a lot of shit in my life. I did. And, of all the choices I have had to make to date, this is certainly one of the ones that have cost me the most.”

“You don't convince me.”

He grunted, rolling his eyes.

“I bet the elven penis was the tiebreaker.”

The realization made Varric spit out the wine he had just put in his mouth. Agnes's sass had crossed the line _a little_ , and the intention of civility during that family discourse had ended there. Apparently things were returning to normality, finally. Garrett stared at her dumbfounded, but she only replied with a wide, satisfied smile, crossing her arms in front of her. She knew that the lowest offense she could use against her cousin was to mention any delicate situation regarding Fenris. But he also had a very unpleasant ace up his sleeve. And he was not at all embarrassed to use it.

“You play dirty because Fenris finished off your bonkers boyfriend--”

“Hawke…” In a low tone, Varric interrupted him gently at last, as soon as he noticed that the quarreling had long since passed the tolerable limit.

The pause in the woman's breathing and her stare at her cousin almost made him once again regret using sarcasm in undesirable situations. “When…?” she asked in an almost inaudible murmur as if that information didn't make any sense to her. Hawke was forced to approach her to try to hear better, a confused expression on his face.

“What do you mean, _when_?” He paused, giving her time to think a little. “Kirkwall? Gallows--”

Upon hearing that, slowly, the frozen expression on her countenance faded, and her entire face became an intense red like Varric's cheap wine. A contagious laugh now rumbled from her mouth and the crows that had returned to their perches at the top of the tower fled again in despair. The two men now watched her in fright as she tried to catch her breath to try to explain herself.

“Looks like _your_ boyfriend is bad at targeting. Or someone here has been cheated.”

Whether Agnes had lost her mind or was just making fun of him, Hawke couldn't say. Years went by after this episode, but he knew of the affection she had for the healer mage. And he for her. Such a loss would certainly not go unnoticed without leaving deep scars.

“What are you talking about, Amell?” he sent Varric a suspicious look, who shrugged but with a worried expression on his face.

She then approached him, a radiant smile on her lips as Hawke had not witnessed in years, placing her hands tenderly on his shoulders. With a gleam of hope in her eyes, she revealed calmly and pointedly.

“Anders is alive.”


	2. Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was named after the song [Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This](https://youtu.be/YxAiZolzGbM)  
> (Marilyn Manson's version ;D )

Screams.

The atmosphere was thick around her, smoke nearby. She looked up and could see nothing but a gray mist covering a reddish sky, an unusual color even during the hottest periods of the year near the mouth of the Waking Sea.

_“No... no... not again.”_

The panting sound of her breathing rivaled the erratic beating of her heart inside her head when a shriek fairly close to where she was caught her attention. She held her breath at once, trying to locate the exact source of the noise. However, it came from everywhere, so she decided to run at random. Now the sound of her footsteps was rhythmic with that of her desperate search for something that would not corrode her lungs like that cursed smoke.

The shriek became close. Really close. No, no, that was the wrong way.

She then turned quickly towards the opposite side. Fast breathing, heavy steps. She saw nothing before her eyes but a thick, merciless pitch. Her lungs burned like that horrible drink Cabot served in the tavern in Skyhold.

Skyhold?

No, that was not the stronghold of the Inquisition. It was far from being. But somehow she knew. Renée knew where she was.

She then let her body fall heavily on her knees to the floor. Running would be useless. Wherever she went, the scenario would be the same. And it always ended in the same way. So she decided to wait.

“Where did I put it?”

Groping all the pockets of her armor, she looked for the one thing that could bring her back to reality. But it wasn’t there. For weeks that damn statuette hadn't been there when she needed it most.

“Screw you, Fen’Harel,” she spitted with a mouthful of rancor, cursing the ancient elven god as if her existence in a moment depended solely on him, but then, no more.

The shriek was heard approaching again, but this time it was not alone. Sounds of moaning people in pain filled the scene, and other haunting noises joined the macabre chorus of the first appearance. The worst part was just to come. Renée then tried to keep her eyes closed, trying her best to postpone that vision that most haunted her in the middle of everything. In the darkness of her mind, blood pumping loud and fast, a symphony of percussion and terror. Her hands began to burn red hot, and then she knew what the next step would be.

“We can skip that part, if you prefer.”

A sweet but apprehensive voice came through the thick fog. All those other noises stopped at that very moment, and Renée watched the silhouette of a man approaching her slowly. The blackened smoke that danced frantically before her eyes disturbed his shape and she then made an effort to try to better outline that figure.

“I don't want to skip anything,” she retorted suspiciously, narrowing her eyes. “I want to go home.”

He then stopped in front of her, smiling shyly. It was then that she was able to see his face more clearly. An all too familiar and comforting young face, but with one or other detail that seemed out of context, but nothing too absurd. After all, everything there was out of place. Her musing was interrupted when one of his hands, wrapped in grimy ribbons, showing only callused bare fingers, was extended as an offer to help her up.

That vision brought her a welcoming memory, flooding her thoughts with a feeling of affection. And then she urgently accepted the help, approaching the man inadvertently with the intention of a relieved hug, but she stopped halfway, looking at him hesitantly.

Something there seemed _too_ wrong.

“Where's your hat, Cole?” noticed the elf, stepping back slowly.

It wasn't just the hat. Although that item was frequently present in her friend's attire, there was a subtle alarm sounding in her subconscious. It was the first time she had met him in that situation. All other times, in a distant past, it was that other figure wearing a Templar armor. Luckily, he wasn't exactly a Templar. When she found herself helpless in that world of dreams, or nightmares, a young elf who had just discovered her tragic fate by being granted the “gift” of magic, that entity was the first to reach out a hand. He was the one who helped her return to the physical world in the first place and who taught her to use the Dread Wolf statuette to her advantage, as an amulet. Luck, maybe? Renée always felt that she possessed it much more than judgment.

_“You are an open door for other wicked beings that live here, my child.”_ It was what he always told her. But, after a while she couldn't even remember, he just disappeared. His company wasn’t all that bad, after all.

_“Cole may have had access to that scenario when he searched the recondites of my mind,”_ Renée thought, _“and he could be trying to help me in the place of that other entity.”_ Although the question remained whether he would have access to her dreams just as he has to her thoughts, she still regarded him with suspicion.

However, the young man seemed to have limited patience. A sudden movement was enough for her to point out as a problem. Cole held her arms tightly, bringing her close to him with violence. She gasped in surprise, and noticed that those eyes were shining differently than usual, but what made sense there? Renée felt a weight on her chest as if something was preventing her from breathing.

“You’re... hurting me,” she whispered slowly, trying to loosen up slowly and understand that attitude, but her strength didn't seem to be enough.

“We need to get out of here. You need to get me out of here,” he whispered hectic in her ear, looking wildly around like a mad prisoner fleeing his executioner.

“If I knew how, we would be long gone--”

He then looked deep into her eyes. Those crystal clear, wide blue eyes looked at her static as if the man was under the influence of some toxin. His breathing was short and shallow. “You need to let me in. You and me. Together.”

Renée laughed in bewilderment, trying once more to free herself from his hands that still gripped her tightly. “Cole?” she said breathlessly, “You're scaring me!”

He then slowly curved his lips in a wicked smile, giving in his grip a little. His hands then began to run along her arms in a lascivious caress, making her shiver at his touch. “I know what you want. You want _me_.”

Yes, she did. Some of her darkest thoughts no longer seemed to be a secret anymore. But it was _her_ dark thoughts that had no intention of happening. Not with Cole. Her friend, a spirit of compassion, someone who was attracted by her pain and who, in the end, ended up becoming her greatest safe haven since... since when she found herself alone in search of trying to control that side she most execrated in herself. But he dug a reflection inside her that, at all costs, she kept veiled even from her own reveries. That deceptive humanity he displayed physically, his appearance, his voice, his scent... Renée held it all, or tried, in the most spiritual way she could. But sometimes, her own mundane nature played some tricks.

The boy then wrapped his arms around her tenderly, gently bringing their bodies against each other. A contrast that almost made Renée forget his brutal attitude a few minutes ago. His gaze searched for hers in a dismayed plea behind the golden locks of hair and she felt her body burn. That response was inevitable. She was disoriented, but the situation seemed so tempting that she let herself go.

“Cole,” she said his name in a fascinated sigh, “I don't think we should--”

The spirit did not wait for the elf to finish her speech, joining his lips greedily to hers in a passionate kiss. The boy's wheezy breathing and his trembling body, as if he were doing that for the first time, but still with extreme skill, left Renée confused. When had he learned to do that? Her heart was beating fast against his chest, her breath almost absent and, his tongue voraciously whirling through her mouth, left her no strength to react. She almost surrendered.

But something in the back of her mind was screaming. And then she silently pleaded, unconsciously.

_“Help…”_

Again and again.

Deep darkness was about to engulf her in a bottomless pit, when a close, familiar voice called her back to reality.

_Wake up._

***

“Evune!”

Renée grimaced when she heard that name. But apparently it had worked. When she opened her eyes, she saw Solas's face in an expression she couldn't tell if it was out of curiosity or concern.

“Why do you insist--”

The mage interrupted her complaint with a spell probing for anything that could be... where it shouldn't be. She looked at him with a start.

“Clean,” he said, at last, smiling with satisfaction. She could have sworn she heard a note of relief in his voice. Very subtle. “My friend, you never tire of surprising me.”

Glancing around quickly, Renée noticed she was back at Skyhold. She was in the officers' quarters, just where she had spent the night before. Little by little, her memory brought to light the events of that frightening episode. Another one of those dreams. But with a detail that was still puzzling her. Where _was he_?

“What are you doing here?” she asked Solas suspiciously.

The mage studied her for a moment, realizing that much still needed to be clarified. He then moved to her side. “I heard your cry for help.” His gaze lingered on hers, and he wasn't quite sure where to start, but Renée raised a wary eyebrow, so he continued, “Luckily, I arrived just in time to avoid--”

But at that moment, the door of the lodge opened violently and then the inquisitor Lavellan appeared with a worried face.

“I came as soon as they told me.” Fenlaros was in his battle armor. He had just arrived from a mission in the Western Approach, his gear covered with dark blood. When he saw Renée, he ran and bent down beside her, taking off his gloves and laid one of his hands on her forehead, looking intently into her eyes. He then sent Solas a distressed and uneasy look.

“She's fine,” Solas replied, “there is nothing to worry about. Not at the moment.”

Renée sat down on the bed slowly, scanning each of the two mages with frightened eyes. “What is happening?”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

She knew that look. Lavellan felt betrayed by every new secret Renée avoided revealing to him. From the moment she joined the inquisition, Fenlaros saw in her part of his people that he was forced to leave behind. A beacon that brought him back to himself, a reflection, reminding him of who he really was and not feeling ashamed or guilty, although everyone else in the world made him think otherwise. She hadn't grown up under the old Dalish ways, but the blood was there, and he clung to it fervently. She made him feel at home.

Renée stood up and walked towards the window. The breeze from outside cooled her sweaty skin from the sleepless night, making her shiver slightly. She then sent Solas a sideways look. “You would know. At the right time.”

Fenlaros laughed in outrage and walked over to her. “Solas knew, Agnes knew... who else?” he said in a somber tone. “Why? Do you think I wouldn't understand? Do you think… I am not good enough to understand?”

He searched her eyes insistently, but she avoided them even more. The floor seemed like a safer place to behold. “You have already so many burdens,” she said finally, “I didn't want to be one more--”

“Stop!” he said holding her by the shoulders, “Just... stop!”

“I'm just an officer--”

“You're _my friend_!” Fenlaros said slowly, but with much fury in his words, and she was forced to look into those icy gray eyes. “Didn't you understand that yet?”

That sentence hit Renee's heart hard. She saw him the same way, she always did, but all the obligations of the inquisition seemed to be creating an enormous wall between them both. Lavellan had been placed on a level so high that all she didn't want at that moment was to be another thorn in his side.

The silence that followed was so overwhelming that Solas was finally obliged to intervene. “I called the inquisitor here because I know he can convince you.”

The two looked at the apostate with curiosity. So he went on.

“And in light of these new events, he now has this obligation,” Solas said, staring at Lavellan severely. “At first, I believed her case was a simple matter of ill-indoctrinated magic.”

Renée felt her stomach sickening. “Can it get any worse?”

Solas then stared at her. The expression on his face remained unchanged. “Is this the first time you have these dreams?”

Both Solas and Lavellan looked at her critically. Yes, that felt perhaps worse than being a mere hedge mage. She then denied it, shaking her head slowly. “But they happened less often.”

“Where are you trying to get to, Solas--” Lavellan now turned his attention to the apostate, who had turned his expression into a hint of interest, a slight smirk on his lips that made both the inquisitor and Renée uneasy. Lavellan then strode to the center of the accommodation in distress. “No. Are you sure?”

Solas ignored him as if he wasn't there, his attention still focused on Renée. “Have you ever been approached that way… other times, on those occasions? I mean,” the mage narrowed his eyes, “do you usually share the company of other beings in these dreams?”

The excess of knowledge that Solas seemed to have about what had happened was unsettling. And Lavellan's reaction was also not helping much. So she tried to deviate from the theme.

“How do you know all these details?" she asked, crossing her arms. “Were you there?”

“I rescued you.”

Renée laughed. “So you saw who was with me.”

Solas remained silent, waiting for her to answer for herself.

“Who, Renée?” Lavellan's patience was about to run out. The elf approached his friend again with fearful eyes.

She looked away from the inquisitor, hesitating for a moment. Then she faced Solas again. With all that judgment, even she was not believing the things she had experienced herself, and then she spoke that name with insecurity. “C-Cole.”

“Cole?” Solas asked incredulously.

Lavellan shook his head vigorously. “Cole was with me on this mission. I had him all the time under my eyes. We arrived now in the morning.”

None of this made sense, not even for Renée, nor for the inquisitor. Maybe a little now for Solas. The apostate scratched his chin, staring at the researcher as if he were analyzing an object of study. Renée knew that look. But being the focus of the research was perhaps not a very comfortable position. She then moved in an attempt to get out of his sight, using Lavellan as a shield, but the apostate persisted in his observation.

“You know that there are beings that inhabit the Fade that can shape the environment to their advantage,” Solas pointed out, “in this case, they use weaknesses of people to try to seduce... their prey.”

Renée wasn’t liking the direction that conversation was taking. But now her curiosity has become much greater than her fear. “What did you see there, Solas?”

A stern look then took the place of that enthusiastic smile. “I'm sorry, but it wasn't Cole who was there with you.”

Perhaps it would have been better to die with the doubt. Renée wasn’t an expert on matters of the Fade, but the time she spent with Cole, the real Cole, and of course, the teachings she remembers having gathered with the spirit with whom she had befriended in her childhood, made unnecessary any kind of detailing what may have happened. But Lavellan stepped forward.

“A demon was impersonating him to possess you.”

Her face was as pale as snow, and she smiled disconsolately, letting her body fall heavily against the wall. So many questions were going through her head at that moment, at the same time, and she didn't know which one was the most important or worth the effort to face the truth.

“About these dreams,” she took a breath, “can I stop them?”

She knew that magic was inherent in her nature. But not the dreams. Having Cole as a source of vulnerability sounded like the end of the world to her. She didn't want to hear that she should walk away from him to avoid any catastrophe. She was fervently hoping that neither of them would suggest that possibility. There must be some other solution.

“There are two options,” Solas began, “and one of them is completely out of the question. I am sure the inquisitor agrees with me.”

Lavellan was looking beyond, biting his lip, but his mind was there and he needed to make a decision. Once more. He knew which option was out of the question, and in fact, it hadn't even crossed his mind as an alternative to be considered. But he knew that he couldn't do it alone.

“I'm going to talk to Dorian.” He said suddenly and walked quickly towards the door.

“Wait,” Solas interrupted him perplexed, “why Dorian?”

“The only alternative we have is to teach her how to control this, correct?” Lavellan gave him a stern look. “Dorian is an academic. I am sure he must know some effective solutions used by the mages in Tevinter.”

This does not seem to have been a decision that pleased Solas. The apostate approached the inquisitor with an expression of deep disgust. “Inquisitor,” he forged an awkward smile, trying not to sound rude, “I believe this is not the ideal moment to act passional--”

Lavellan's face burned like fire with those words. “I'm not being--” He then grunted nervously, reflecting for a moment. “What do you suggest to me?”

As if walking on thin ice, Solas approached Lavellan cautiously, noting the inquisitor's timely retreat. “I understand that Dorian is a lettered mage and I have no doubt that he has a certain mastery on these issues,” Solas said resolutely, “but I believe your officer needs guidance from someone with empirical knowledge on the subject.”

Renée stared at both mages perplexed, disbelieving in all that acting. “The officer is still here!” she said, waving at them. “Do you want to hear my opinion too or--”

“I'm sorry, Renée,” Lavellan interrupted her boldness in a dark tone, “but this decision is now solely up to me.”

Solas understood his position and remained silent. But Renée looked stunned, although she preferred to keep her ideas to herself. He was right, after all, she was under his subordination, even though they were close friends.

The inquisitor picked up his gloves again on the bed, sending Renée a stoic look, before leaving the rooms. “I declare you strictly prohibited from leaving Skyhold. It will only happen under my custody, Dorian’s… or Solas’s.” He stopped at the door, not looking at them. “I still need to think about this.”

“Does that mean... I am your prisoner now?” she called out to him.

He then looked at her with sad eyes. “I didn't want to consider it this way.”

Her stomach felt sick again when she saw Lavellan leaving, and the chasm between them both got even deeper than it already was. A shadow behind Fenlaros's back. She managed to run from a Circle life her entire life, but now she was seeing herself under the jurisdiction of the inquisition. Another fluke, perhaps. But one cannot run forever from their fate, she thought. Being a mage had this inevitable outcome, but being a mage with a _plus_ , was something she wasn't planning for her life.

Solas was lost in thoughts too, but he decided that it would not be wise to overlook the express orders of the inquisitor. Although his hands were tied, the apostate turned to Renée when he noticed that Fenlaros was finally gone.

“The dreams will not stop overnight, nor wait for the inquisitor's decision,” he said without looking at her, “but if you find yourself in trouble again, don't hesitate to call me.”

Renée silently watched Solas leave the room. She was afraid. That was a primitive fear, of a greater force that was beyond her and anyone else's reach. Could Solas really help her when another demon decided to try her again? What if she couldn't call him in time? Where was her statuette, her only amulet that could effectively rescue her from these situations?

She prayed for her grandmother that day. She prayed hard. Orathari was the only one who seemed to truly understand those tortuous paths on which Renée had been unwittingly left.

She knew too much.


	3. In the Morrow (I'll be Gone)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Whether that new piece would work, she couldn't say, but the feeling, perhaps unconscious, that she was safe again, was real."_
> 
> This chapter was named after Brandi Carlile song's [In The Morrow](https://youtu.be/zhVufY2Y3OU)  
> 

“No, they haven't happened since.”

The dark circles under Renée's eyes showed that not only her dreams offered a respite, but also her nights of sleep had ceased almost completely.

Lavellan was following his agent to the requisition office early in the morning when many in Skyhold was still waking up. The inquisitor was fighting against the constant yawns that dared to interrupt the conversation, his gloved hands brushing against each other and wrapping his own body in a final attempt to maintain the warmth he had brought from his bed.

“You don't seem to be sleeping anymore either,” he noted, concern showing on his face after a yawn he couldn't fight. “We need to fix this soon. I need you whole with me.”

Renée looked at him with sadness, that feeling she was one more nuisance in the life of the inquisitor. And also the responsibility to respond to the demands of her job. She hadn't left her quiet life in the city of Val Royeaux for nothing. Now it wasn't only for the Inquisition. It was also for Lavellan.

The requisition room was already open, and Ser Morris was sitting by the request bench displaying a listless face. It seemed he had fallen asleep there, after an intense revelry in the tavern the night before. Renée walked in first and he only raised his head to greet her. But when he noticed Lavellan behind her, he jumped, almost knocking his chair over with an impulse.

“S-sir inquisitor,” he said awkward, adjusting his belt. Was it unbuttoned? “I wasn’t expecting your visit at this hour--”

Lavellan only raised a hand, a serene smile on his lips. The elf was embodying a position of authority, at last. “Keep with your service,” he said, watching the quartermaster's disorganized table. “And, please, fix that.”

Ser Morris agreed without objecting, immediately picking up some papers and samples that were also on the floor. What had happened there? A fight? Or the quartermaster himself who had arrived very drunk from the spree? Neither Renée nor Lavellan tried to go too far in their speculations, leaving the man immediately and headed to the attic.

In contrast, Renée's side on the top floor was organized in a flawless way. There were a series of maps rolled up in one corner of her small table and several notebooks stacked on top of it, separated with rigor by different covers colors. Small tags accompanied each of them, and Lavellan could see that they indicated the toponymies by which the inquisition had carried out missions. The writing was not the most readable, but the most important information was there, and it could be enough for Renée to understand. It had been a long time since he had visited her workplace. The last time, possibly, had been in Haven, and much has changed since then.

Along with her notes, there was also a series of correspondences with the University of Orlais seal. There wasn’t only one or two, but a considerable pile. Some had been already opened, and Lavellan, with discretion, managed to read the signature on one of them. They seemed to be addressed by a teacher whose surname could be read as "Kenric". Why hadn't Renée discussed it with him yet? Neither did Josephine. No, Lady Montilyet would know for certain if there would be a statement on any matter pertinent to the research carried out in conjunction with the institution. But the moment he was going to question, Lavellan noticed Renée had stopped in front of her desk with a face showing she knew something was out of place.

Impossible. He examined every detail there and nothing, absolutely nothing, seemed to be out of place.

Perhaps, not for him. On impulse, she moved with hesitation towards a small box that was right in the middle of her desk, sending the inquisitor a suspicious look as if wondering if he had put it there himself. But he shrugged, understanding that much less than she did. So she finally decided to find out what was inside.

As soon as she opened it, a small note jumped through some dry straw that was enveloping a hidden object. Renée didn't know whether to read the letter first or check what it was. Fenlaros stepped forward when he saw the piece of paper leaping out of the box, grabbing it before it landed on the floor.

“Renée,” he said in a somber tone as he glanced over the note, “I think this--”

“Agnes.”

She didn’t need to read it. For her, the content of that box already spoke for itself. Renée turned her back on the inquisitor, bending like a shell around that object. Why hadn't Agnes delivered this personally? Why the mystery? Then she realized and looked at Lavellan again.

“What does this say?” She snatched the small note from the inquisitor's hands with evident tension. The letters shuffled before her eyes from what seemed to have been written too hastily, and she then looked at Fenlaros in a plea for help, handing the note over to him again.

“I can’t!”

“Renée, calm down.” So he started. “It says something like...  _ 'this will help you with the nightmares' _ ...  _ 'if you have any doubts, talk to Dagna' _ ...” He paused and looked at her, trying to know if that made sense to her. But she was waiting for something more, so he went on. “She also apologized for leaving like this... and asked...  _ ‘don’t try to follow me’ _ .”

Renée shook her head, laughing as if she already expected it. She knew somehow that Agnes would follow her path, one day. The mage never showed a deep connection with that environment and showed even less love when the issues pertaining to the Chantry used to come up with each decision made by Lavellan. Even if he tried to avoid this path at all costs, and even if the inquisition was a completely independent organization nowadays. Or what it was believed to be. Renée also never expected Agnes would remain because of her. This would be a too selfish thought, after all. And after the elf revealed her issues related to the nightmares, her relationship with Cole, and that other spirit with whom she shared much of her childhood, Agnes closed herself even more in her isolation.  _ “Just try not to become an abomination, silly elf.” _ It was what she used to say. And laughed. An almost exaggerated sense of humor. But Renée knew that, in fact, she was afraid. She knew that she feared that her friend would have the same fate as that of her other companion. Her sudden escape almost made sense, but the elf knew there was something else going on there.

“If you like, I can send some of Leliana's agents to try to find her--”

“No!” she interrupted him irascible, but her apprehension made Lavellan even more intrigued. “If she asked to not follow her, we’ll respect her decision.” She walked towards her desk and placed the closed box over it, leaning on her arms. A deep and resonant exhalation left her lungs.

Agnes's departure seemed to have had a hard effect on Renée, something like a coup de grâce after everything that has already been going on, and the inquisitor felt compelled to do something to try to mitigate that.

“Hey…” He approached her, placing a gentle hand on her back. “You are not alone.”

She turned to him, throwing herself against his body in an almost instinctive, thoughtless embrace. There were no tears, neither words. Only a tired breath and her heart pounding weary against his chest. He returned her gesture of confidence, wrapping her in his arms with tenderness. They lingered, eyes closed, and cradling each other in a lenient movement. The inquisitor himself needed that embrace, and so he indulged the moment. The whole world saw him as an unshakable authority, a fortress that could withstand the hardest blow. He was someone who seemed to be enduring everything with brilliance. The only survivor of the explosion at the Conclave. That damn mark on his hand. Corypheus in his pursuit. A Dalish elf without his clan, without his family. But he was a mortal being, like all those who followed him in their almost blinded faith for hope. One misstep and his mind would collapse at any moment.

Both needed a short break.

He then pulled Renée with gentleness to look her in the eyes. “Let’s go for a walk with me,” he said, moving a strand of hair from her eyes in an affectionate gesture. “I… also need some time.”

She looked at him in doubt.

“Prepare a change of clothes. We will be away for a few days.”

“A walk... or a mission?”

“Um… more like a date. A friendly date.” Lavellan stepped behind, smiling, heading towards the staircase. “I'll solve an issue first, but we meet at the main gate in a moment.”

He then left swiftly, without waiting for confirmation. That seemed like an order. But a sweet order, which Renée was willing to carry out with pleasure.

A satisfied smile broke out on her face, but before she could leave to prepare her baggage, she decided to check again the gift Agnes had left for her. It was safer now. Lavellan would certainly not understand.

_ An amulet. _

An amulet almost the size of the palm of her hand, crafted with a singular dexterity on shiny coppery metal. Six dark red stones embedded in its upper face adorned that object, three on each side, and a larger red agate in the center, which shone in a mesmerizing way as the light penetrated its polished facet.

The amulet in the shape of a wolf's head with six eyes and a seventh that seemed to contain a kind of enchantment that Renée did not understand, was placed on her neck, under her clothing.  _ Agnes remembered what she had said about her grandmother's little idol _ . Whether that new piece would work, she couldn't say, but the feeling, perhaps unconscious, that she was safe again, was real.

***

“And then she left this note for my officer.”

Leliana reached for the small crumpled note and watched it with careful eyes and attention typical of her specialty. “I'm going to talk to Dagna, we can get some clue from your arcanist. It would be good to interrogate your agent as well.”

Lavellan waved his hands. “No. I don't want her to know. Not yet.” For a moment, he thought he should have given it some thought before seeking help from Leliana's spies. “Perhaps it is better to talk to Dagna myself. I'm sure she will spill the beans.”

She stared at the inquisitor, who was scratching the back of his neck in unease, trying to avoid Leliana's penetrating gaze. How those judgmental eyes were unsettling to him. “What about the content of this box? Did you get to see what it was?”

He swallowed. “No, unfortunately not.” Lavellan then approached the bard, an apprehensive look on his face. Deep down, he began to fear for that inadvertent decision. “Let me ask you something, Leliana... try to protect this woman as much as you can. Don't do… anything rash.”

“That will depend on the problem she is involved, inquisitor,” she retorted, aiming through a narrow stained glass window to the outside of the rotunda. “As I understand it, she spent a lot of time between us, and she left suddenly, leaving little trace. Some very suspicious.” The birds in the various cages hanging from the ceiling began to caw in dissonance and Leliana watched Lavellan over her shoulders. “We have to keep an eye on this kind of people.”

Fenlaros' regret was now notorious. He then sighed. “If you find her, please, give me only her whereabouts. No further. No corpses, no prisoners. I decide what to do with her later.”

The bard then nodded slowly.

“As you wish, inquisitor.”


	4. Chez Toi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inquisitor Lavellan took Renée on an unplanned "mission", far from the purposes of the Inquisition. Her return to her home brought back good memories, but also some pending issues that were left behind.  
> Many of these memories and revelations were not so sweet.
> 
> This chapter was named after the song [ Chez Toi](https://youtu.be/PbRyQPdgjXg)  
> by Thomas Fersen

Returning to the city of Val Royeaux, now not as a servant of the House Tourtellotte but as an Inquisition agent, came as a shocking reality. The Orlesian nobility never seemed too terrible to Renée, although many believed an elf coming from a Fereldan alienage to a subordinated life in the imperial society endured a cruel fate. But she was confident with all those rules and even got used to the movements of the Great Game, of which her tutors were active participants. However, had it not been for the patient guidance of Lord Dane, the loyal bard of Baron Gastón de Tourtellotte, she would certainly have been lost amid the political machinations of her house.

Renée missed him.

When she faced again those sumptuous buildings, especially the region of the Summer Bazaar, every corner, each one of those doors, alleys, and boulevards, all of that emanated Dane's stories.

Val Royeaux has felt alive ever since, and coming back was as if she could witness the ghosts of those tales acting right before her eyes.

_“Don't forget your mask.”_

Until the bard's euphonious voice sounded in her subconscious, as yet another ghostly manifestation of that place. And Renée touched her face, feeling it naked. That caused a brief sense of despair to the elf, so she hurried on and joined the inquisitor steps.

“Are you alright?” Lavellan asked, noting his friend's unease.

Renée walked with her head down and looked around with caution. “Yes. I just--”

Fenlaros stopped in front of her, holding her gently by the shoulders and sought her eyes. “Hey. If you're not feeling well, we can come back.”

She laughed nervously. “No. I’m fine.”

Except for the fact that she could predict that at any moment someone would jump down her back and a dagger would end up ripping her throat. She recalls a servant from another house had been murdered for much less at one of the countless balls promoted by the Tourtellotte. Would that feeling never go away? But then she took a deep breath. After all, that fear no longer made sense.

Renée was a free elf now.

***

“Monsieur inquisitor, it is an honor to receive you here at our café. Table for two?”

The hôte at Le Masque du Lion Café inspected Renée from head to toe with discretion, casting a suspicious look at the two daggers she now carried on her back. But she noted it. When you can't read people's faces, their eyes almost never allow themselves to be concealed. Except when you're an experienced bard.

She smiled and greeted him with kindness, but her gaze penetrated relentlessly through the man's mask. Awkward, he coughed and indicated one of the tables to sit at.

Renée took a seat with a sigh and looked around with a placid smile on her lips. “Ah, I missed this place.”

The inquisitor chose a chair in front of her. “Are you being ironic, or…”

She shook her head. “I'm serious.”

Lavellan waved to one of the waiters. “You looked frightened a moment ago.” There was a small commotion among the available attendants, but one of them stepped forward and approached quickly in light leaps.

“Nonsense. I just--”

“Mo-monsieur inquisitor… ma'am,” said the young man as soon as he arrived at the table, interrupting her. “Can I take your order?”

An almost foolish smile appeared on Lavellan's face. It looked like the face of a child who was about to have a prank. At that moment he said in a low voice, approaching the attendant as if he were doing something _really_ wrong, “those tiny cakes... icing all over... Could you bring us two--” Suddenly, he grabbed the boy's arm, who looked at him in astonishment. “No!... Three. Bring us three.” Then he looked at Renée again, “unless you want more than one too--”

She quietly denied it. With a wink of approval and a smile with the certainty that she would have a great time that day, she encouraged him to proceed with his request. The attendant then left swift and the inquisitor smiled with satisfaction, tapping his fingers happily on the tabletop. The pair of daggers that Renée had left sheathed hanging over the back of her chair then caught his eye.

“Nice blades,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

Renée swallowed. “Yes. I'm learning to use them.”

“Alone?”

She moved uncomfortably in her chair with the smirk the inquisitor sent to her.

Lavellan was acting too much even-tempered that day and his sarcasm was showing more than usual since the moment they left Skyhold. And Renée reflected on what the purpose of that “tour” really was about. That didn't seem like a responsible posture by a leader in his position. Abandoning all his duties behind on an impulsive trip with one of his agents, only corroborated the idea Renée always had of him: Fenlaros was in the wrong moment and place from the beginning. The anchor, and everything attributed to it afterward, was not designated for him. If he was Andraste’s chosen one as everyone believed, well, then these human deities were in serious trouble of discernment.

“I should have ordered a wine too,” he said, scratching a small spot on the table unintentionally when the attendant arrived with the fancy cakes.

The waiter froze with the dishes. “Wine, monsieur?”

But once again, Lavellan asked for confirmation from his friend with an unsure look.

“But you can’t make any decisions on your own?”

The pout of disappointment on Lavellan's face almost made Renée regret remarking it. No, he really wasn't where he was supposed to be. She then redeemed herself, feeling sorry for his resentment.

“Alright... Bring us a wine, my dear... _s'il vous plait,_ ” she said matter-of-factly, not noticing the mixture of languages. Lavellan then winced in admiration.

“ _Sil vu_... what?”

Renée reached for one of the dishes and pulled it close to her. “ _S’il vous plait_. Meaning, _please_.” With an elegance that surprised him again, she tasted a small portion of the iced layer. “We usually employ that as a form of politeness.”

He gazed at her in disbelief, pulling out the dish with his two huge cake slices. “What a brash!”

They exchanged a lingering stare while Renée licked the icing on her cutlery provocatively. “So... what's the sentence, inquisitor?”

The generous piece of cake that he had carefully placed on his fork fell awkwardly onto his plate again as he gaped at her. “Don't tease me, lady.”

She shrugged. “I’m still under your detention, Fenlaros. Do you think I forgot that?”

The inquisitor's eyes closed with regret, and he left his cake aside. “No, I don't... look,” he sighed, “I'm trying to protect you.”

“Me... or the rest of the people?”

That was a truth that needed to be made clear until Solas' theory could be confirmed. Lavellan knew which side mattered most to him, and at this moment there was nothing more painful than admitting that his friend's vulnerability could indeed cause a significant problem. He brooded the inquiry in silence but tried to show some sympathy with her painful doubt.

“I… Well, I've been thinking. Solas is right. I trust his work and expertise, so it might be better if you both work together.”

Renée bit her lip. “Me and... Solas?!” A profound sigh left her lungs, and Lavellan couldn't help but look at her in surprise.

“What’s wrong? I thought you both got along--” He then noticed a sudden blush taking over her entire face, and some things started to make sense.

This time, at a more appropriate timing, the waiter arrived with the wine. Renée addressed the man with a pleading look, encouraging him to fill her glass first. And fast. He got the message and did it without blinking. But by the time he filled Lavellan's goblet, she had already drunk all of hers in a single swig, reaching over for more. Both looked at her in astonishment, and the waiter searched uncertain for confirmation from the inquisitor.

“It’s alright. Leave the bottle.”

Fenlaros observed her with concern, while the waiter left in confusion. She wiped off some of the wine that had dripped from the corner of her mouth feeling humiliated, but then refilled her glass.

“What a shame…”

“Stop it. Nobody here is judging you.”

She couldn't help but scoff. “That’s what you think.” Renée inspected each of the cafe's customers with discretion, and could accurately tell those whose subject among their peers was she and Lavellan. “ _Everyone_ here is judging us. Mainly because I am sharing the table with none other than the inquisitor.” Acting inappropriately here, and to be noticed as it was, was troublesome to her. Not only because they both were elves and, one of them, a world leader, which aggravated the paranoia, of course.

“Well, let's pretend these people aren't watching us, and we keep going with our little date, okay?” Lavellan didn’t believe much in what he had said, as he himself began feeling uncomfortable with all those eyes that he now _felt_ over him. And being reminded that he was in a prominent position was all he was seeking to avoid. “So…” Pretending to be taking that scenario with ease, he cleared his throat. “About Solas... did you both...?”

Renée took a breath. And one more sip of wine. Sooner or later, the subject would come up again. Talking about social norms in the Orlesian Empire was a much more pleasant topic. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“So something happened!”

“Just a kiss. Nothing else.”

Lavellan almost climbed the table with the revelation. For a moment, he stared at his friend with wide eyes, and then took a swig of his wine. “ _Just_ a kiss?” His look was more of outrage than surprise. “I knew he was fascinated by you somehow... but couldn't tell if it was because of your skills or--”

“Probably, because of my... _skills_ ,” she replied fast in a mocking tone.

“But there was a kiss! And that means a lot!”

Renée grunted as she placed her glass again at the table with trembling hands. “Look. It was a mistake. Mine and his. A moment of weakness. It won't happen anymore, okay?”

The discomfort generated by the theme was noticed, so he tried to go a little slower in his inquisition.

But just a little.

“And Cole… that dream of yours with him… I mean, with the demon—” Lavellan shook his head, trying to organize his thoughts. “I still don't know if I worry about it or...”

She shrugged, pretending innocence, as she focused on her last pieces of cake. But the bashful smile that was outlined in the corner of her lips, and the slight flush on her cheeks, did not go unnoticed by the inquisitor.

“You like him.”

She then set her fork on her plate and looked elsewhere, trying to restrain a broad smile from spreading all over her face.

“You do like him!”

“Ugh, why so annoying!?”

The expression of tenderness on Lavellan's face rubbed off her when she felt her eyes mist a bit after witnessing his joyful finding. She couldn't say whether the warmth she felt in her chest was the result of the excess of alcohol or…

Yes, she liked Cole.

Still unsatisfied with the revelations so far, he nudged her friendly. “So? Did anything happen yet? I mean, with the real Cole.”

“What? Of course not! Nothing will happen…” she looked away. “And I’m fine with that.”

“What do you mean? Why not?”

“Fen. Cole is a spirit.”

“I don’t understand. He doesn't look like one.”

She then sent a gaze at him, crossing her arms. “Elaborate.”

“Well,” he paused, sipping some of his wine. “In essence, he can be. But he has many human features...”

Renée followed in silence, waiting for a slightly more convincing idea. So he went on.

“For example…” Fenlaros froze, contemplative. “He bleeds! A lot!”

She grasped the bottle with indignation and filled Lavellan's glass. “Darn, you could spare me the nasty details.”

“No! Seriously… I've lost count of how many times I had to heal him during missions… thanks,” he said, reaching for his goblet. “A spirit couldn’t do that. I wonder what other things Cole can do…”

Renée stared at him with a wistful look. “No, you don’t--”

“Agile, and with a lot of energy... he must be wild in bed!”

And then her face turned into an unrivaled redness. She took a deep breath and rubbed her face with both hands. She wanted to scream. She wanted to slap the inquisitor so hard until he pleaded for help. But Lavellan was sure she wouldn’t lose her composure there. Never. So he didn’t hold a laugh. Then she said in a subdued tone. “I hate you.”

Lavellan knew it wasn’t true. He then smirked. “And I love you, sulky. Hey,” he said, moving closer, “I just cherish your happiness.”

Although she knew it would be a little more complicated than the inquisitor imagined, Renée relaxed and smiled warmly, extending a hand to him. “I also want you to be happy, Fen. In fact... does Dorian know we’re here together?”

He reached for her hand with his and gripped it tightly. A heavy expression washed over his face and all that good mood seemed to have suddenly gone down the drain. “And why should he know?”

There was a poignant hint in his tone and the sweet taste of those cakes that he had devoured almost in half turned into a bitterness inside his mouth.

“I... don't know. I believed you both…”

“It was just a kiss,” he replied harshly, and with a wistful smile on his lips.

Gradually, Lavellan tried loosening his fingers from hers, one by one and looked away. But this time, she brought him back with a firm, comforting hand, and he couldn't help but look at her in surprise.

“You like him.”

The touch was encouraging, although he still felt he was making a mistake. One more among so many others he had already committed throughout his life. An elf in love with an Altus from Tevinter. The taste was sweet, but the consequences of that attraction could be catastrophic. But her words only confirmed what was already there. What else could be done?

And then Lavellan smiled.

Yes, he liked Dorian.

***

“Is the room okay for you?”

Fenlaros was standing at the door of the accommodation where Renée would spend the night. She took a quick look around. This seemed a lot compared to the officers' quarters in Skyhold and also in Haven. And partly evoked her room in her tutors' house. But even so, it was still a little more sophisticated, although it exuded a mild odor of aged wine.

“Is this... just for me?”

The questioning seemed genuine, but Lavellan frowned, pondering for a moment whether she really meant that.

“It's just I thought…” she paused, “well, never mind.” Renée scratched the back of her neck and examined the room again. Obvious. There was only one bed there. A huge bed, but still.

Lavellan took a deep breath. “Will you be fine here on your own?”

Renée's heart was racing, and she clenched her jaw. “I…” her voice came out choked. “I'll be fine, don't worry.”

Hard to believe. That afternoon, she looked like such an unbowed woman in the midst of all the perversities of Orlesian society, and now, alone, she resembled a cornered animal. She wore well the mask of the Empire, and seems to have been strategically shaped for that environment. But this mask was certainly not able to protect her from her own fears and thoughts.

Lavellan sympathized with her evident anguish and then turned to the door, closing it behind him. “I’ll stay here for a while until you fall asleep... can it be?”

Her eyes gaped. “You don’t need to--”

“I do need to. And you need to sleep.” He walked over to the bed and sat down, extending his hands to her. “At least for one night. Come.”

Reluctantly, she took a deep breath and joined Fenlaros. Sitting beside him, she swung her legs in the air and stared at the wall, with a huge pout on her face. The silence was disturbing and awkward. Lavellan couldn't help but laugh with all that ceremony, laying sloppily behind her. “If it were Cole here, I bet you would already be in my arms.”

Renée turned to him, her eyes on fire. However, this time there was nothing to stop her.

She beat his thighs hard, cursing things that no one would dare to understand. However, Lavellan laughed and howled in pain at the same time and let her take out her fury and frustration on himself, seeming to enjoy the whole situation. Until he thought she was going too far. There was much anguish there, and Fenlaros knew that. After enduring his friend's savagery long enough, he gripped her hands tightly.

“Re-Renée... Enough,” he said in a serene tone, trying to calm her down. She still hissed and looked into each of the inquisitor's eyes with an anger that he couldn't tell whether it was hatred, sadness, or... Until she ventured for an impetuous kiss, but he dodged, watching her in confusion. Frustrated and clearly embarrassed, she tried to release her hands from his, but Lavellan pulled her onto the bed and straddled her hips.

She gasped, immobilized, as she stared at him stunned and he explored her in return. The desire to get rid of his control was nonexistent.

“Fen…”

His name came out as an almost inaudible whisper. She moved her hips suggestively against his, and Fenlaros let out a deep grunt, pressing his pelvis against hers. The groan that escaped Renée's throat was inevitable and inviting. Moved by an almost primal impulse, Lavellan stood between her legs with a skillful swing of his knees. One of his hands left her fists and paced along her body in a greed caress, until reaching her hip, gripping it tightly.

He gave her a taste of steady thrusts, once, a couple of times, while her demanding groans encouraged him to go beyond. Her free hand went for his scalp, grabbing his silver hair firmly in an attempt to make him look at her. So their gaze collided again. And at that moment, the time froze.

None of them seemed to have found what they were seeking. Not into each other’s presence.

Lavellan held his breath with his eyes closed, resting his forehead against hers. Little by little, he undid his control and let his body fall beside her.

“I’m… sorry.”

Renée tried catching her breath. What was that? For a moment she reflected she didn't want to stop. It wouldn't be all bad if it happened. But maybe it was better to continue like this.

“Don’t worry,” she said staring at the ceiling.

“I thought--”

“Things have changed, haven't they?”

Lavellan turned on his side, staring at her, puzzled and curiously embarrassed, much more of this revelation than his bold attitude of a few moments ago. “How did you--”

She then turned to face him, resting her head on her hand. “Solas hinted that back in Haven. He was bothered you didn't pay any more attention to the things he said… that you were distracted by the requisition girl.”

“What a bastard!”

“Until Dorian shows up,” she added. But Lavellan remained silent in his own reflection.

She laid her head on the pillow, smiling at the inquisitor's vulnerable moment. Vulnerable and adorable. And for a moment she observed his face. That proximity allowed her to notice more clearly the number of scars he had there. A mage shouldn't possess so many of them, she thought.

With an unwary hand, she tried walking her fingers over one of them but was gently censured by the inquisitor's left hand. He then closed his eyes with deep regret and shook his head. This seemed to be a very sensitive territory.

She dared not ask. Instead, she took advantage of their intertwined hands and gently stroked his palm with her thumb. “It hurts?”

He opened his eyes and understood it was about the anchor, and not his scars. “I think I got used to it.” Then he removed the glove so that she could see what it looked like.

It was the first time Renée had seen it this close. Her heart pounded in agony when she noticed the intricate pattern that was there as if it had been branded with a red-hot iron. There was no way it wouldn't hurt. That mark took over all his palm and, once again, Renée feared for him.

However, a disturbing feeling that this thing was pulling her towards it sucked her into an obscure void. A tangle of voices whispered frantically in the back of her head and she felt the urge to shove it away. She pushed Lavellan's hand away with fright, covering her ears with both hands in despair.

“Wha--?!” he said confused.

With no hesitation, he put on the glove again and hurried to support her. He held her face bewildered, searching for an answer through a speechless question. But she gasped and stared at him with a terrified gaze that compelled him to embrace her tightly.

“Shit!” Fenlaros spat with a hatred that came from his core. “If... that shit hurts you too, I swear… I swear I’m going to rip it off!”

Then he felt her nestle deeper into his chest, sobbing softly. He closed his eyes and kissed her head, lingering there, trying to offer a soothe he now doubted would be welcome. But Renée's hands gripped him tightly, pulling him even closer. Lavellan then breathed a sigh of relief.

“Tel'enfenim, da’len…” he whispered.

A song came to his memory and, in a muffled and anguished murmur, it slowly started to leave his lips.

_“Elgara vallas, da'len... Melava... somniar--”_

A more bitter sob of protest was heard against his chest. With a tender kiss on her temple, he then kept singing.

“ _Mala tara aravas… Ara ma'desen melar. Iras ma ghilas, da'len, ara ma'nedan ashir? Dirthara lothlenan'as, bal emma mala dir…_

_Tel'enfenim, da'len._

_Irassal ma ghilas, ma garas mir renan… Ara ma'athlan vhenas… Ara ma'athlan vhenas…”_

Verse by verse, Lavellan felt that Renée was giving herself up to her dreaded sleep. A rebellious tear streamed down his cheek, his heart beating in painful anguish as he gently rocked her. How long had Fenlaros not allowed himself to cry like that? How many more things would that damn mark still take from him?

After a losing fight against fatigue, Renée finally surrendered. Her hands still connected to his suit, she resonated softly in a deep sleep and so he decided to stay with her. She would, at last, have her deserved rest.

Lavellan tried resting Renée's head carefully on the pillow, but she protested a little, so he froze. While adjusting her again in his arms, he noticed a shiny object glowing hidden in her blouse. Curious, he sought with his free hand to reach it cautiously. A not-too-long golden chain seemed to hold a rather sturdy piece to carry around the neck, he thought.

Then the accessory popped out, and he held his breath.

It made his stomach churn with a primitive dread. For a moment, he wished he hadn't grown up under Dalish ways... and their senseless stories. Maybe Renée was a genuinely happy elf. She was free.

The jewel with the head of the Dread Wolf that Renée had on her neck let Lavellan uneasy. That night she had gotten her sleep. On the other hand, the inquisitor spent the rest of his in a disturbing epiphany. Sometimes looking at the ceiling, sometimes watching over his friend's sleep... and sometimes feeling he was being watched by Fen'Harel himself.

But for a brief moment that he himself did not notice, he also fell asleep. A shallow sleep, however, suddenly broken by a soft touch on the bedroom door. He jumped, terrified, and looked around, almost forgetting that he was in Val Royeaux and not Skyhold. And with Renée at his side.

Both were still dressed. Just like they were when they got to the room. What a relief.

Fenlaros took a breath and stood up, but Renée had not reacted. The peace and quietness that her sleep revealed left him in awe.

He walked to the door, intrigued that the person on the other side did not insist on being answered. There was a small note carefully folded on the floor, thrown under the door. When he crouched down to reach it, he noted a very subtle scent emanating from the paper, a distinctive aroma that was certainly not from a cheap cologne.

Man's perfume.

There was no indication of addressing on the outside, so he decided to open it without the least care. But Renée's voice sounded hoarse behind him.

“What's it?”

He stopped. “Ah…” Lavellan turned to face her with the paper in hand and a puzzled expression on his face. “Someone left this under the d--”

“Fen!” She sprinted and snatched the paper from his hands with a concerned face. “You didn't put your hand in your mouth, did you? Not in the eyes, nor--”

“What? No!” He rubbed his hands on his pants by reflex. “What is happening?”

The perfume that exuded from the letter caught her attention and made her heart skip a beat. A too familiar scent. So she whispered to herself.

“Dane.”

Lavellan frowned. “Who?”

Renée let her body fall on the bed again and opened the letter with shaking hands.

_Ma petite,_

_My heart was filled with joy when I saw you today. But also with fear._

_I see you decided to use the daggers that I so wanted to teach you. I wonder: who finally managed to convince you?_

_But I do not intend dwelling on this humble letter. I must be quick, in fact._

_I ask you and the inquisitor to leave Val Royeaux as soon as possible. Preferably, before dawn._

_Things are not good for you here, my little troublemaker. But I'm holding on the way I can._

_Go, and don't look back. I hope we have a moment in the future to share some of your news..._

_Du fond du cœur,_

_D._

_P.S .: Monsieur Traquenard misses you. But do not worry. He's safe (although he keeps acting weird... and pouncing very little. After all, the cat is already a certain age...)_

She always knew she should trust her intuition. And perhaps read the rest of the correspondences sent by Kenric.

“Fen…” Renée looked at him with a face paler than the sheets they had laid on. Her voice sounded like a harsh, choked cry. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

***

“I assume you have not fulfilled our agreement under our contract, Lord Dane.”

The acrid odor of that cramped room, mixed with cheap cigarette smoke, churned the bard's stomach. That despicable man, Professor Jacquemoud, was the personification of Val Royeaux's filth, and his habitat made that quite clear. The contract was not with him, but with Baron Gastón de Tourtellotte however, at first, not for the task he had been assigned.

“Monsieur Jacquemoud,” Dane's voice sounded like a soft melody, his pale grey eyes, the only visible part of his face, contrasted with his black mask ornamented with golden accents. “I need you to clarify your intentions since my lord's orders did not specify anything regarding--”

The professor approached the bard slowly but ominous, their faces a few inches away. Jacquemoud wore a mask that covered only his gaze, leaving his youthful and marked jaw uncovered. Dane could smell the strong breath of coffee mixed with cigar smoke, and he had to hold his breath for a moment, or he would vomit right there. “My dear bard,” he said in a serene tone, but his face became an intense redness, “your master has a contract with me. And your services were one of the terms of this contract. That being said, you work for me as well.”

Dane listened in silence, only his eyes moving to examine the professor intently.

“My dear student left some pending matters here with me to join the Inquisition's purposes. Or this farce that they recreated under the name of Inquisition. And as I understand it, she had complete consent from her tutor.”

The bard then decided to speak up. “Monsieur... And do you believe this can be solved only by bloodshed?”

Jacquemoud started walking around Dane. He stopped in front of a bookcase with several books that seemed to be rarely accessed due to the amount of accumulated dust. “The girl was good, I must admit. I always expressed positive things about her to everyone here. I even arranged a position with Professor Kenric to work on these Chantry matters that he so appreciates. They both seem to get along.” He ran his finger along the spine of the publications, sometimes trying to remove the dust, sometimes making an effort to try to read what each work was about. “I did a lot for her. I spent time and resources training her. Empress Celene owes me that. Another elf engaged in the progress of the Empire, isn't that the speech?” He paused and chuckled. “But the frustration that Renée brought me with her sudden departure left me depressed.”

There was still a long way to win Dane's sympathy. “You talk like she's already dead.”

“For me, she already is,” he said, pulling one of the books off the shelf. “I just need you to do that for me.”

Dane smiled discreetly. “And why do you think I would do that?”

The professor flipped through the pages regardless of their content. “Lord Dane, Lord Dane… You are an experienced bard and you know the story.” Jacquemoud stopped at a page that described the different forms of lyrium found in nature, and an illustration made with extreme excellence and scientific rigor caught his attention. “Nobody decides to simply leave the Game. Either you kill, or die. In fact, I was informed that she was in Val Royeaux accompanying the inquisitor. And you were aware of that.”

The bard looked over his shoulder. That sentence handed down to his back sent an unpleasant shiver up his spine. It wasn't only because Renée left Jacquemoud's tutelage. There was something else there that Dane still didn't understand. His heart was racing and in several moments, he tried to lead his hand to the hilt of his dagger, first as an act of defense. But in others, just as an almost uncontrollable desire to tear that bastard's throat. But he swallowed and held his momentum.

“I understand that it will be a difficult task for you to accomplish, Lord Dane. I'm not stupid--” Jacquemoud paused as he stroked the illustration in an almost obsessed way. His gaze watched in ecstasy the blood-red paint used to bring the unique mineral to life in the pages of that book. “Ah, isn't that beautiful?” he sighed to himself. And shortly after waking up from his awaken delirium, he reached his office door and knocked it twice softly. “Sometimes we commit a few mistakes during our careers. But certain things are really tempting, I must admit.” The door opened and two sinister figures entered the room and Dane turned to them with a start, surprise this time led him to grab his dagger. However, something immaterial was preventing him from actually using it.

There was no poison. Nor any suspicious smoke, nothing but the unpleasant one that already came from Jacquemoud's own cigarettes. But he noticed the hands of one of the professor's guests.

 _Magic_.

And not an ordinary kind of magic, but Necromancer.

“Let's do something.” Jacquemoud closed the book abruptly and moved to face the bard. “I want you to take a message to Baron de Tourtellotte. A warning,” he said yanking Dane's mask. The bard was breathing hard and terror was evident in his eyes. “This was your first mistake as my employee. And the baron’s for breaking our contract.” For a moment, the professor admired his subjugate features in rapture, bringing one hand to his face with an unnerving caress. “You have beautiful eyes, Dane.”

The bard tried to scream, but the magic that imprisoned him chocked his throat allowing enough air to come in and out only to keep him alive.

“It is a pity that somebody like you find yourself on the front line. But those are the game rules.” Jacquemoud nodded to the other guest, who approached with a small dagger in hand. “Try not to spoil that pretty face too much. It's just a warning,” Jacquemoud said as he turned his back on the bard. He lit one more of his cigars, and that stinking smoke permeated Dane's lungs crowning his nightmare.

“Ah... Don't forget your mask when you leave, monsieur.”

The buzz of academic life that unfolded routinely in the corridors of the University of Orlais masked the muffled screams in Professor Jacquemoud's office. He was his master, and Dane was now begging for his honor.

But those were the game rules.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Mir Da'len Somniar" - Dalish lullaby translation:
> 
> Sun sets, little one,  
> Time to dream  
> Your mind journeys,  
> But I will hold you here
> 
> Where will you go, little one  
> Lost to me in sleep?  
> Seek truth in a forgotten land  
> Deep with in your heart
> 
> Never fear, little one,  
> Wherever you shall go  
> Follow my voice  
> I will call you home  
> I will call you home


End file.
